


A Real Fluff Job

by teacuphuman



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Another Puppet, Companionable Snark, Established Relationship, Fucked Up, Happy Ending, I promise, M/M, No puppet sex, Only rated Mature in terms of situation, Slight Kink Shaming, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 14:13:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18262970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman
Summary: Arthur gets a shock when he doesn't do his homework on a job gone sideways.





	A Real Fluff Job

**Author's Note:**

> Look. I watched The Happytime Murders, and this happened. I make no apologies.

“What do you mean she walked?” Arthur demands, nodding his thanks to the barista and taking his white chocolate mocha. He heads straight for the door because today is the day. They’re set to grab the mark in ninety minutes and now they’re short one extractor.

 

“Eames took her down for a final run and when she woke up she gathered her things and took off,” their architect, Mouse, says.

 

“Did she say anything? Did Eames say anything?”

 

“She just said she changed her mind and that we could split her cut. She looked kind of off and Eames has been chain smoking on the roof since she left. What do we do? Should we call it off?” 

 

Arthur drinks half of his coffee in one swig, letting the sweetness center him. “We can’t, not this close to go time. Especially with the extra money on the table. No. We’re professionals, Mouse, and we can do this on our own.”

 

“Arthur, are you sure?” Mouse asks, skeptical.

 

“Yes. I’ll meet you at the shrink’s office. We do things as planned and I’ll extract.”

 

“But Dom Cobb said—”

 

“I don’t give a fuck what Dom said,” Arthur hisses, having to force himself to remain calm. “Do me a favour and never listen to what Cobb says, okay? You’ll live longer. Meet me at the office with the PASIV.”

 

He hangs up and dials Eames, already expecting the barrage of curse words Eames answers the phone with.

 

“Amateur, Arthur! A fucking amateur! Who the hell is she to tell me how to do my job? She can’t even change her goddamn shoes in a dream!”

 

“I need you to calm down, Eames,” Arthur tells him evenly.

 

“And to critique my forge?  _ My _ forge? Almost shot her out of the bloody dream myself!” Eames goes on as Arthur crosses the street and jumps a puddle.

 

“I don’t blame you, of course,” Eames huffs.

 

“Yes, you do.”

 

“Fine, yes, I do. Where are you finding these people, Arthur? You used to have standards.”

 

“Watch yourself,” Arthur warns, finishing his drink.

 

He hears Eames take a deep breath; the line going staticky when he exhales directly into the mic. “It’s not you, darling, the whole industry is going to shit. There’s no finesse to these young people. No sense of pride. They’re here for the money, not the intrigue, the difficulty, the  _ art _ .”

 

“Are you done?” Arthur asks, tossing his empty cup in the trash.

 

“Probably not,” Eames grumbles. “What’s the plan?”

 

“We go on as planned; I’ll go under with you.”

 

Eames is silent for a moment and Arthur’s on the cusp of angry when he finally speaks. 

 

“I don’t know if that’s the best idea.”

 

“Why is it that everyone is suddenly doubting my skills?” he snaps.

 

“It’s not that, darling, it’s just that… this one is a bit odd.” 

 

Arthur scoffs. “We’ve done weird before, remember the birds?”

 

“In horrifying detail, but this isn’t like the birds. This bloke is, well, you’ve read the file.”

 

“Yeah, and it’ll be fine. It’s a fluff job, Eames,” Arthur says, frowning at his phone when Eames guffaws. “We go in, we crack him, we get out. Shouldn’t take more than seven minutes. Nine tops.”

 

“And you read the file? All of it?” Eames asks again.

 

“I did my job, Eames, stop being an asshole.”

 

“Okay, fine, don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

 

“You keep this up and my knickers won’t be any of your concern,” Arthur snaps, insulted and a little hurt at the doubt Eames is showing.

 

“My apologies, Arthur. Mouse and I shall meet you at the office. And you’ll go under with me. Into the dream.”

 

“And then we’ll get out and go our separate ways, no strings attached,” Arthur tells him.

 

Eames giggles and it’s so uncalled for Arthur takes his phone away from his ear and stares at it.

 

“Are you high?”

 

“Only on life, darling,” Eames sighs. “See you in eighty-four minutes.”

 

“Eighty-three,” Arthur corrects and ends the call.

 

Precisely eighty-two minutes later, because Arthur is nothing if not prompt, he’s stepping into the inner office of the therapist footing the bill for the job. The woman is sitting behind her desk, looking bored, while the mark snores softly on the studded leather couch. The room is a cliche, from the dark wood and dim lighting to the picture of Carl Jung on the wall. But Arthur’s not here to judge so he lets Eames and Mouse in through the door to the waiting room.

 

“Aren’t there supposed to be four of you?” The doctor asks, crossing her legs and eyeing Eames.

 

“You don’t get a discount,” Arthur tells her. “Now, if you’d please.”

 

He opens the door he came through, the one that leads to the private bathroom, and motions for her to step through it. 

 

“I didn’t think you were serious about that,” she says, raising an eyebrow at him.

 

Arthur does not have time for this shit. “I’m afraid it’s necessary. Or we can leave.”

 

She purses her lips, but stands and gives Eames once last long look before stepping into the bathroom. Arthur shoves a chair under the handle and thinks about leaving it there when they leave. Eames is smirking as he puts the mark’s line in and Arthur flicks him on the ear. Mouse ignores both of them and sets up in an armchair with a stopwatch.

 

“We have ten minutes, boys.”

 

“You’re sure about this?” Eames asks quietly, fussing with the roll of Arthur’s cuff.

 

“Something you’re not telling me?” Arthur questions, forcing back a nervousness he has no time for.

 

Eames grins. “I can’t keep anything from you, darling.”

 

“Nine minutes,” Mouse tells them, already sounding worried.

 

Arthur lies on the floor, frowning at a dark patch on the carpet by his knee. “Relax, Mouse, we’ve got lots of time.”

 

“Goodnight, Arthur,” Eames says, pressing the button.

 

The room Arthur opens his eyes to is a match to the model Mouse built. The walls are painted dark purple and there’s a gaudy red chandelier hanging in the middle of the room over a giant, circulating bed. It’s a horrible example of a playroom, but it matches the details in the mark’s file perfectly. It’s the same as he described to his therapist, hideous green carpet on the floor and all. It looks like someone skinned a hundred Oscar the Grouches and laid them end to end. In fact, there’s a texture to almost everything in the room. The chairs are covered in pink velour, the couch in a dark yellow chenille. It’s all designed for sensory pleasure, but Arthur has to wonder if the obnoxious hues are really necessary? 

 

The bed is by far the worst; the duvet a field of thick, bright blue fur with matching furry red pillows. There’s even some kind of doll in the corner, all pale orange skin and a sweep of curly brown hair. The doll blinks at him and Arthur is so surprisedhe jumps.

 

“See something you like, darling?” the doll asks.

 

Arthur’s gaping, he can feel it, but he can’t stop. He chokes out a laugh, caught somewhere between hysterical and panicked.

 

“I knew you didn’t read the file.”

 

Arthur’s mouth snaps shut at that. “I did so!  _ This _ was not in the file!” he says, waving his hands at Eames’ felt body. He’s wearing red cut-off booty shorts, a neon pink mesh top, and is all of three feet tall, but when he walks, it’s all Eames in swagger and stride.

 

“It was in the therapist’s notes. All of it,” Eames tells him, smug, plucking the mesh shirt away from his tiny, dark, pierced nipples.

 

“I—I. It’s your job to tell me the key points of your research!” Arthur insists, taking a step back when Eames reaches him. There’s a silver ring in the puppet’s eyebrow and it rises questioningly.

 

“You’re slipping, Arthur.”

 

Arthur wants to protest, but he’s not sure Eames is wrong. Jobs have been growing more and more tedious over the past two years and he’s been taking longer periods off in between them to lie in bed with Eames and just  _ be. _

 

“What else did I miss in those notes?” he asks, giving the puppet a speculative look.

 

“The mark has a puppet fetish, obviously.”

 

Arthur freezes as he thinks of the economics of that. “Is he going to... ah, give you a... hand?”

 

Eames laughs but shakes his head. “No, he wants the puppet to be animated on its own, that’s why it’s a fantasy. The other he can do on his own at home. And he does, by the way.”

 

Arthur groans and Eames nods along.

 

“So twink puppets, this is what the dream is these days, huh?” Arthur asks, hating his life at that moment. “And I’m the puppet pimp.”

 

“Wanna see where else I’m pierced?” Eames asks, moving to open his tiny shorts.

 

“Dear god, no!” Arthur says, backing up and sitting heavily in one of the pink chairs. “Eames, this is so fucked up.”

 

“Well, at least it’s not boring,” Eames counters, smoothing back his yarn hair.

 

“You’re the only thing that’s not boring in my life,” Arthur admits.

 

Eames blinks his cartoon eyes. “That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me, Arthur.”

 

Arthur chuckles and leans back, spreading out over the chair. “And you’ll always remember you were a puppet when I said it.”

 

Eames comes closer, his four-fingered hands sliding up Arthur’s legs. “You know, darling, my mouth is velvet-lined.”

 

Arthur can’t help it, he cracks up, bending in two as his chest heaves and tears prick his eyes. Eames is laughing along with him so they’re both startled when the mark opens the door, naked save for his socks. They all stare at each other for a moment, then Arthur dreams up a gun and points it at him.

 

“Where’s the book?” he demands.

 

The man holds up his hands. “What book?” he asks, voice wavering.

 

“The Charleton first edition your grandfather left you.”

 

“The Hampton house,” he says, glancing between the real-seeming Arthur and the fantasy of puppet-Eames. “There’s a secret room behind the library.”

 

“Great, your therapist will try to steal it from you so move it. But make sure the room is humidity controlled, that thing is worth a fortune.”

 

O—Okay,” he stutters. “Um, thank you?”

 

Arthur does Eames a favour and shoots him out of the dream, pausing before he presses the barrel to his own temple.

 

“And all this?” he says, waving the gun around the room and giving the mark a stern look. “Dude.”

 

The man’s ducks his head and Arthur squeezes the trigger.

 

Ten hours later, Arthur and Eames are on the bow of a rented, 33-foot yacht in the Caribbean. Arthur’s standing behind Eames, his shirt open, chest pressed to Eames’ warm back. Eames has pulled the ‘King of the World’ line twice and Arthur grins wider each time.

 

“Hey, Eames?”

 

“Yes, Arthur?”

 

“What was your ass lined with?”

 

Eames glances over his shoulder and wrinkles his nose. “Wool.”

 

Arthur shudders and holds Eames tighter. “It’s just as well then, I’m allergic to wool.”

  
  



End file.
